Today marks my three-year alcohol-free anniversary.
Three years since I stopped pretending I was fine.
Three years since I stopped choosing things that kept me small.

And while alcohol was a big part of it, it wasn’t the only thing I quit.
That same day, I ended a toxic relationship too.
They went hand in hand—mutually reinforcing, mutually destructive.

It's not like I didn't know.

I knew exactly what I was doing.
I just wasn’t ready to stop doing it—yet.

There was a part of me that still believed I could manage it.
That if I just kept showing up, kept trying harder, I could make it work. (Sound familiar?)

I was contorting myself into whatever version of me would keep things functional.
Abandoning my own needs.
Tolerating betrayal in all its forms just to keep the peace.
Convincing myself that loyalty meant endurance—even when it was costing me everything.

But eventually, I got tired.
Tired of negotiating with what I already knew wasn’t right.
Tired of settling for lies when I came here to build something real.
Tired of delaying the version of my life that felt true.

So I made a decision:
I left behind everything that wasn’t working for me and committed to my mission.

No half-measures.
No secret second-guessing.
Just a full, conscious choice to stop holding myself back and start moving forward.

And once I made that choice, I had to take responsibility for the changes—all of them.
Not just the relationship.
Not just the story I was telling.
But everything I was doing to keep myself numb, distracted, and disconnected.

Alcohol was one of them.

Alcohol had been with me through a lot.
It was part of the culture, the rituals, the relationships.
It was in the celebration and the stress.
It was everywhere.

And for a long time, it made what was barely livable feel just okay enough to keep going.
It made the relationship feel manageable.
It helped me ignore the knots in my stomach and the truth I didn’t want to face.
It helped me disappear from myself—quietly and consistently.

But eventually, the hangovers weren’t just physical.
They became emotional.
Spiritual.
Existential.

I was waking up drained, foggy, behind.
Sacrificing time, energy, and peace—just to keep a behavior I didn’t even enjoy anymore.

I didn’t quit because I had to.
I quit because I was finally done sabotaging myself.
Because I was ready to stop pouring my energy into things that weren’t pouring anything back.
Because I knew I couldn’t build the life I wanted while dragging around habits that kept me disconnected from it.

Early on, it was weird.
I had to learn how to just be in social situations without a drink in my hand.
I thought I was going to feel awkward, out of place, or like I wasn’t “fun” anymore.
But that passed. Way faster than I expected.

And now?

I don’t miss it.
Not at all.
Not at parties.
Not at concerts.
Not when I’m dancing or dating or celebrating anything.

I thought life without alcohol would be smaller.
Turns out, it’s bigger.
More connected. More alive. More me.

Since quitting, everything in my life has changed.
Because I’ve changed.

One of the first things I did was start taking better care of myself—like, really care.
To make up for all the years I hadn’t.
For the ways I pushed past my limits.
For the times I ignored my needs, my intuition, my body’s signals.

I started pouring back into myself—physically, mentally, emotionally.
I got to the root of what alcohol had numbed but could never heal.
I stopped avoiding the ache and started tending to it.
And slowly, something shifted.

My energy came roaring back.
My body started feeling like home again.
My strength became sacred.

I did the things I’d always said I wanted to do
I started training jiu jitsu (even took classes with Jocko and Dean Lister)
I got back into trail running and started practicing yoga
I built new habits, new rhythms, new rituals that nourished me instead of depleting me.
I learned to live in my body instead of escape it.

That doesn’t happen when you’re recovering every morning.

Instead of bar hopping, I went stargazing.
Instead of avoiding my feelings, I started facing them.
I danced—not to forget, but to celebrate.
I’m learning bachata now and my hips move just fine without tequila.
I’ve had sober New Year’s Eve kisses I actually remember.
And every single morning greets me without regret.

I didn’t quit drinking to become someone else.
I quit drinking so I could finally be myself.

And I feel great about it.

If you’ve been thinking about quitting—or even just pressing pause—here’s what I’ll say:
Try it.

You don’t have to call it forever.
You don’t have to tell anyone.
You don’t have to wait for a dramatic reason or a rock bottom.

Just try it.

Try 30 days.
Try 6 months.
Try a year—and see who you become.

Yes, it’ll feel weird at first.
Yes, some relationships will shift.
But not all change is loss.
Some change is exactly what you need.

✨ Mornings I look forward to
✨ Clearer thinking and sharper intuition
✨ A stronger more resilient body
✨ Healthy relationships and hobbies
✨ A relationship with myself that feels like home
✨ More real love in my life than ever before

I don’t miss drinking.
I don’t miss recovering.
I don’t miss trying to make things feel “fun” that were actually draining, disappointing, or just plain empty.

I didn’t get boring when I quit.
I got better.

Better at choosing.
Better at leading.
Better at loving.
Better at being here. Now. Fully.

Three years clear. Three years stronger.
No regrets.

Thanks for being here—for reading, for witnessing, for walking this path with me.

-Sunny

You don’t have to call yourself sober. You don’t have to tell everyone your “why.” You don’t even have to be 100% sure you're done forever. But if you're choosing not to drink—for a night, a month, or the foreseeable future—you do deserve support.

Here are 6 things that can help.

1. Get clear on what it was doing for you.
Before you cut it out, understand what it was holding up. Was it stress relief? Social armor? Avoidance? A way to feel less alone? None of those things make you weak. But once you name the need, you can start meeting it with something real. Something that doesn’t take more than it gives.

2. Build a life you don’t want to numb out from.
If your days are built around pressure, resentment, chaos, or pretending—you’ll reach for relief. Alcohol just happens to be fast and accessible. So the point isn’t just to stop drinking. It’s to build a life that doesn’t require sedation.

3. Expect some awkwardness. Let it be fine.
Not everyone will know what to do with you. People will project their own stuff. Some will get weird. That’s not your burden to carry. Let it be uncomfortable. Let it pass. You’re not here to make everyone else feel okay about your clarity.

4. Give your nervous system a new ritual.
It’s not just about the drink. It’s about the pattern—“this is how I end the day,” “this is how I unwind,” “this is how I transition.” Find a new marker. Light a candle. Take a walk. Stand barefoot on the ground. Do something that tells your system: we’re safe, we’re done, we’re home now.

5. Don’t stay too long.
If you already know the answer is no, honor that before your body has to shout. Whether it’s a bar, a relationship, a party, or a pattern—leave when you feel it’s time. Clarity is easy to lose in the places you’ve historically abandoned yourself.

6. Stay connected to who you’re becoming.
Not in a performative way. Not for the internet. For you. The you that wakes up proud. The you that doesn’t need to piece together what happened last night. The you that doesn’t apologize for taking up space while fully sober and fully present. That version of you is closer than you might believe.

Just because you’ve spent a long time making a poor choice doesn’t mean you need to keep making it.

We’ve all stayed too long—
In the job.
In the relationship.
In the project, the habit, the identity.
Not because it was working, but because we’d already put so much into it.

That’s the sunk cost fallacy in action: the idea that the more you’ve invested in something, the more obligated you are to keep going. Even if it’s draining you. Even if it’s clearly not aligned.

It’s a trap dressed up as loyalty.
A slow bleed disguised as perseverance.

But the truth is simple: you don’t owe anything to the version of you who made that choice.

You tried. You learned. That’s not failure—it’s feedback. And sometimes the most powerful move you can make is the one where you stop.

Stop over-performing.
Stop throwing good energy after bad.
Stop giving your life away in pieces to prove a point no one’s asking you to make.

Quitting isn’t weak. Staying stuck is.

You’re allowed to change your mind.
You’re allowed to walk away.
You’re allowed to want something that doesn’t keep hurting.

And no matter how long you’ve been carrying it…
you can always set it down.